Chapter 30
by jmsutherland
Summary: The Guardian evaluates the situation.


Page **10** of **10**

**Chapter XXX**

William was in his office counting out his money when Selene appeared, and _appear_ was precisely the right word for it as she became visible without any apparent cause. She wasn't there, and then she was.

"Oh, hi, Scoop," he said, trying to disguise the fright she'd given him again, as always.

"I've told you not to call me that," she sighed.

"Sorry," he shrugged, "I forgot."

"No, you didn't," she said, very slightly exasperated.

"No, I didn't," he admitted, "but I won't do it again."

"Yes, you will."

"Yes, I will," he admitted, "but only because you bring me so many exclusives."

"Then I sha'n't bring you any more," she threatened.

"Oh, go on, please," he mock-pleaded, "you know you want to."

"Hmmm. Anyway, how's business?"

"Sales are through the roof," William beamed.

"You do realise that the roof is rather a long way from here, don't you?"

"It's a figure of speech."

"Oh, you mean a cliché?"

"Sort of."

"Not precisely, then?"

"Well, yes, exactly," he conceded, sort of.

"Good, I'm glad we cleared that up."

"Yeeees," said William, not quite so sure. "Anyway, we're selling lots of copies, lots and lots and lots."

"Quite a lot then."

"A lot more than _The Times_ ever sold, that's for sure. And here's another thing: according to our source inside the Bothermore organisation the sales of _The Banner, The Post, The Tribune_ and _The Chronicle_ are all either flat or actually down," William laughed.

"Is that a touch of what Genuans call _joie malicieuse_?"

"C'est certainement," he affirmed.

"And why do you think this might be?" Selene asked.

"Because we're a fresh new voice challenging people's set ideas," he boasted.

"Don't people generally resent having their set ideas challenged?"

"Well, yes," said William, looking slightly puzzled, "they do."

"So, that's not likely to be the reason then, is it?"

"No," William agreed, thoughtfully, "it isn't"

"How peculiar," she observed.

"Yeees," he agreed, dubiously. "Anyway, do you have another exclusive for me?"

"Actually, I do."

"Great! What is it, Scoop?"

Selene decided not to acknowledge this one as she knew he was trying to vex her for some odd reason of his own.

"I have an interview with M. Quincaillier, a thirty-year-old ironmonger from Genua."

"Sounds fascinating," said William, sarcastically, "I hope there's an angle."

"He's dead."

"Sounds rather dull in that case. I assume you interviewed him before he died."

"No, afterwards."

"Ah, he's a zombie?"

"No."

"Ok, I'm, officially, intrigued."

"M. Quincaillier owns a shop called Ironware in Ellend Road. Tomorrow the front page of _The Post_ will carry a photograph of M. Quincaillier standing, smiling, outside his shop. However, it will call him Herr Eisenwarenhändler, claim he was sixty, came from Überwald and was murdered by a pack of rampaging Omnian thieves that raped his wife, wrecked his shop and stole everything he had. We have to wait for the first edition of _The Post _so that Otto can photograph M. and Mme. Quincaillier holding it up and smiling outside his completely undamaged shop."

"I love it!" cried William, "Gudrun!"

The dwarf maid was immediately in the doorway.

"Yes, sir?"

"It's going to be another late one, I'm afraid."

"Those are my favourites," she said, turning on her heel, with a smile.

"You have no idea how lucky you are to have that girl," said Selene.

William thought that in this particular case _girl_ was probably the appropriate word. He thought that though, in spite of her looks, Gudrun was most likely over ninety, Selene was almost certainly older, a lot older.

"Actually, I do," he said, "but remember that I have Sacharissa working for me too."

"Ah, yes. Oscillations and revolutions, I suppose."

"What's that about?" asked William. He really didn't like not getting a reference."

"It's a figure of speech," she replied.

"But not a cliché?"

"No."

"Which is exactly why I don't understand it?"

"Precisely."

"Good," he said, "I'm glad we cleared that up."

They smiled at each other for a moment, and then William frowned:

"It's getting worse, isn't it?"

"Yes," she replied, "a lot worse."

"And there's absolutely no truth in any of their stories, is there?"

"Not a single word."

"And it's getting nastier too?"

"Much nastier."

"Any ideas as to why they're doing it?"

"Well, at first I assumed they were simply following the old gutter-press motto _hate sells_ but if, as you say, their sales are down, then I don't know."

"Do you think they believe what they say?"

"I think this story demonstrates that they can't possibly do so, though I think they want to, just as their readers do."

"But why would you want to believe that sort of thing?"

"Alas, that is a human thing and I do not pretend to understand them."

William thought it was very polite of her not to include him in the human race."

"Can we make a difference?" he wondered, hopefully.

"I don't think so," she regretted, "a lot of people are interested in the truth, but most aren't. We may outsell _The Chronicle_ or even _The Tribune_, but the numbers sold by _The Post_ and _The Banner_ are frightening, truly frightening."

This was indeed frightening, as William didn't think there were many things that could scare Selene.

"Then why are we bothering to even do this?" he asked, also rhetorically.

"Because it's better than doing nothing at all," she said simply.

"I'll believe that if you will."

There was a commotion outside: the sound of several people bustling down the stairs, a couple of them tripping over each other, muttered curses, veiled threats as though a fight were about to break out and then Sacharissa appeared. William looked behind her, but there was no one else there.

"I'm here!" she announced.

"That much is undeniable," said William.

"She's very pretty, isn't she?" said Sacharissa, going off on what William termed a line through a pair of infinitely close points on a curve, but other people just called a tangent.

"Who is?" he asked.

"Gudrun, of course," she scolded, "hadn't you noticed?"

"I can't say that I had," he said, nonchalantly. Out of the side of his eye he saw Selene's eyebrows shoot up her forehead, disappear into her hairline and then come back down again and arch. He really wished he could do that; it was a brilliant effect.

It was said that there were people who could start a fight in an empty room. There was a dwarf who worked for The Watch that William thought this applied to particularly. Sacharissa, however, could start a brawl, or at least a serious jostling-match.

"Anyway, greetings, star-reporter," he said.

Sacharissa looked over her shoulder, but there was no one else there.

"I have an exclusive," she panted.

"So does everyone, it appears, I hope it's not the same one."

Selene frowned at him, which was like being slapped by a lesser being, but Sacharissa just looked blank.

"So, what have you got, a scoop?" he made sure he didn't look at Selene at this point.

"Well," she said, after a slight pause, "a reliable source has told me what is going to be on the front page of _The Banner_ tomorrow."

"And who is this source?"

"That's confidential; a reporter never betrays her sources."

"I'm not a judge, I'm your editor. Who is it?"

"A friend of a friend," she replied, slightly abashed, though only very slightly.

"Oh, there's nothing more reliable than a FOAF," he scoffed.

"Ok, then, it's Pierce Organ," she sniffed.

"The sword-swallower?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He's friends with Andy Kneel, who is a sub-editor at _The Banner._"

"And a snivelling, little shit. So what?"

"So, he says that tomorrow it's going to run a story tomorrow about how a bunch of drunken Omnians wrecked Nan Does today and beat up a lot of people. But I was in Nan Does until closing time and nothing happened. Even if the Omnians had wrecked it, which they didn't, they'd have had a hard job persuading all those people to come back just to be beaten-up."

Nan Does was a restaurant whose advertising claimed that it served food "like your granny used to make". William didn't know to whom this could possibly appeal, but it seemed strangely popular.

"Have you used this guy before?"

"Yes."

"Have you written it up?"

"Yes."

"Ok, give me your copy. Selene, you give yours to Gudrun."

"Why doesn't she have to be edited?" asked Sacharissa, huffily.

"Really?" asked William, incredulous, "Seriously!?"

"Haaarrrumph!" sulked Sacharissa.

"Don't sulk, Sacharissa," wafting past her, "it's not attractive."

William took his pencil from behind his ear and began the gruelling task off eliminating ninety percent of Sacharissa's adjectives and adverbs. She was a good journalist and could be a good writer, but somehow she could never use one modifier when ten weren't nearly enough.

"William, I'm worried," she said, when Selene had gone.

"Deeply, profoundly, desperately worried?" he wondered.

"Don't, right? I'm not in the mood."

"I'm sorry, Sacharissa. What are you worried about?"

"Everything," she said, dramatically.

"Well, that's a lot to be worried about," he conceded.

"First off, I'm worried about one of my sources," she went on, ignoring his condescension, "the one close to Bothermore. She missed a rendezvous today and she's never done that before."

"She missed one meeting?" said William, with a frown "don't you think you're over-reacting? There could be any number of reasons that she couldn't make it."

"I suppose so," she admitted. She didn't mention that when she thought of Honeysuckle it wasn't just as a source, not mostly as a source, or even partly. But she wasn't sure she was even prepared to admit that to herself just yet.

"But I'm also worried about all this made-up news," she went on, "I mean, shops and restaurants _are_ being smashed up but it's not Omnians that are doing it; quite the opposite, it's almost always Omnian shops that are being smashed up and no one is reporting that, not even us."

"_Almost_?"

"Oh, William! This is Ahnk-Morpork, for gods' sakes! Do you think Mike and Bernie Summers don't smash-up people's shops if they don't pay their protection money?"

"True. OK, find me a witness, write me a piece and I'll put it in the paper."

"I can't, you know I can't! I've tried. Omnians won't report what's happening even to The Watch, and they certainly won't talk to the Press, understandably."

"Well, I'm sorry, then. Unless you actually witness one of these attacks yourself then I can't print a story without any corroboration."

"Why not? They do."

"Then we'd be as bad as them."

"We could never be as bad as them," Sacharissa almost shouted, "not in a month of months."

"Oh, that's less than three years," said William, doing a quick calculation in his head, "give us a bit more credit than that."

"But we're not making a difference!"

"How do you know?

"Because things are getting worse."

"Yes," he admitted, "they are, aren't they. And what about all this flag waving that they're doing? That black cross thing, what's all that about?"

"The Black Cross is an ancient symbol meaning _keep out_ or _forbidden_," Selene explained.

"So, what does it signify?"

"Inchoate rage."

"Oh, great," said William, "we can easily reason people out of that."

"So, what are we going to do?"

"We are going to continue to print the truth, so far as we know it, and continue to point out their lies, as we are doing today."

"And do you think that might work?" she asked.

"It might," he shrugged.

Not in a year of years, he thought.


End file.
